


marked

by verbatiim



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Just a small thing about Genji's tattoos, Non-Graphic Violence, Religion, Self-Hatred, Trans Genji Shimada, always assume he's trans in literally everything i write, because i'm lame, if that wasnt obvious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 03:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15282408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbatiim/pseuds/verbatiim
Summary: He would be a warrior. Not for his clan but for those who needed him.





	marked

_God of War._

 

It’s what they called him, anyway. Hachiman, divinity of archery and battle. Deeply rooted in the Shinto belief, protector of Japan, worshiped by samurai from all walks of life. In the old days, the followers namely came from the Minamoto clan -- titled themselves _Genji_.

He looked over the Japanese people since ancient times; not only the wealthy but the poor, sick, needy.

Not the God of War at all, in some eyes. _God of Warriors_.

The jinja in Hanamura dedicated itself to Hachiman. Katanas decorated the walls, said to connect the Earth to the realm of the kami. Incense always seemed to burn and scrolls told ancient legends, hung high on the cross beams of the shōden. At ten years old, Genji found it easy to choose his name. He would be a warrior. Not for his clan but for those who needed him. He would follow Hachiman as the _Genji_ before him did.

The first tattoo to ever adorn his body was like a prayer. _God of Warriors_ driven deep into his sternum, bold and blocky black kanji, over twenty thousand yen. Sixteen years old. What Hanzo didn't know wouldn't kill him, and Genji would like to think Sojiro might be impressed.

 

Tradition carried on despite it. Two years later men with primitive contraptions and pots of ink filed into the castle gates, just as they had on Hanzo’s eighteenth birthday. It was his turn for a dragon. The swirling imagery and vibrant colour meant nothing, he knew, had already felt her under his skin. White-hot and restless. He wasn't sure yet how to control her, how to understand her, but she was there with him.

 _Seishin_ , Genji called her. She didn’t seem to mind. Simple as it was accurate, and she resonated power, twisting wildly like the blood in his veins through the whole ordeal.

The piece was finished in parts, appointments, four sittings to complete over four months. It hooked around his thigh, knee to hip, and by the end he almost liked it.

Almost.

Time allowed the green ink to fade into something more manageable, shapes melding to create winds. Lightning. Energy.

Later in life, _Seishin_ would heal him of many things. He wasn't sure he could ever repay her for letting them bind her like this. But their company was enough; they were as one. Forced permanence be damned.

 

The tattoo underwent stress after the “accident,”  if he could call it that. Sliced in half, thirds, quarters. Where the bottom used to taper off into nothing it was now jagged, bare, leg missing from just above the knee. A prosthetic took its place in short order, sleek colourless metal.

Losing his arm, though, was the hardest part. Dominant side, capable of drawing and wielding a sword with precision only years of training could teach. Coordination like that didn't come back quickly, cybernetics or no. _Physical therapy_ , they said. _Relearning motor skills,_  they reasoned. And Genji cried, sometimes, wept into the dark hours of the night for who he was and who he used to be, the pain that the dragon twisting through his bones shared with him, the torn picture that the art on his leg created.

Hanzo even had the nerve to hit him where it hurt. A mean strike to the abdomen, creating scar tissue and irregular edges to the writing there. An insult to Hachiman himself. The characters deformed, bordering unrecognizable.

 

 _Warrior_.

 

All that remained, and all that he felt.

He used to fill the spaces back in, sometimes. A dark marker bumping over ripped pink flesh. Scribbly and sloppy from the backwards image in the mirror. Only when he was alone. Only when he had to remove all the armour for fear of suffocating. Only when the pain and the nightmares became enough to want to hurt himself --

But digging a dagger between the shuriken loader in his wrist caused problems for others, not for him. Damaging what was left of his organic body was too painful. He was too weak. On some nights he couldn't even touch himself without the raw burn of his sensitive skin, insides, much less intentionally make it worse.

The bruises under his eyes made themselves a home like eternal pools of ink.

And Angela asked about the tattoos, once, to be met with silence. What do you say, how do you respond? That you worshiped a God who could never protect you, became the plaything of a clan who only disposed of you? Genji stayed quiet from then on, more often than not. She had no question as to why.

Pain was not supposed to be eternal. And maybe it stopped stinging so badly after a few years. Maybe he grew used to the places where metal melded to flesh and maybe he knew how to use his new limbs better than he could have controlled his original ones.

But the hurt ran deep. Kept him up at night grasping at his own body, phantoms continuing to ghost around after an entire decade. Fear. Agony. Betrayal. It didn't all have to be physical.

 

Nepal was the first place that those aches felt soothed. They remained, but were swathed over with cool air and oil baths and reassuring words. Genji ran fevers. Broke them. Did chores every day to keep himself busy, snubbed the meditation of the omnics and the gentle prodding of the human villagers alike. For as long as he could, anyway.

Zenyatta was persuasive, though.

The meeting was quiet. All the superficial parts of Genji’s armour removed, only a soft robe to cover him, and it reminded him of home. Of the yukatas Hanzo was so fond of, the formal kimonos, loose traditional clothing that he used to think was ridiculous.

They sat across from each other on a bamboo mat in the room he had been given. Barren. Cold. A few candles for light, nothing more, chimes striking each other softly in the wind. Zenyatta was silent. No introduction, even, as though Genji was supposed to know his name. And he did. _Wait until our brother comes to you_ , the Shambali were always saying it. Whether a threat or a promise, he wasn’t sure. _You have much to learn_. His mouth stayed shut as his wrists rested on his knees, eyes tired and blinking and waiting for something. Anything.

Red paste sat in a bowl between them.

“I sense within you many years of rage. Doubt.” The omnic finally spoke, chin tilting up as if to look Genji in the eye. “Blinding fear.”

Teeth grit behind his lips.

“What are you so afraid of?”

These days? Genji wasn't sure. The first opportunity to leave Blackwatch was one he took without hesitation, gone with the night, looking for nothing if not a place to die. If he still feared Hanzo, it wasn’t the inevitability of his demise. It was returning to the pain that came with it. He blinked, slow, silent in the face of a question he couldn’t answer. Always had been.

“It is okay not to have answers. But there is a difference between not knowing, and not wanting to say. You understand?”

And he nodded, fists clenching. Zenyatta took the small bowl into one hand, mechanical fingers holding it deathly steady.

“I would like the opportunity to know you.”

“Talking,” Genji trembled with the word, like his lungs weren't working, lip shaking as though he'd cry if he wasn't careful. “Is not going to help.”

“You can only help yourself. I want to teach you the tools to do so.”

Three fingertips dipped into the dye. Zenyatta’s arm raised with curiosity.

“I've never taken a student. It will be new to us both. To care and be cared for, mutually. Is that agreeable?”

Genji stared for an impolite amount of time.

He wasn't sure there had been a time in the last ten years or so where he accepted a kindness simply because he wanted it. Felt like he deserved it. And maybe he still didn't, but he was tired. Second chances were not to be ignored.

The pigment on Zenyatta’s hand dried up before he could come to an answer. The bowl slowly lowered, and the silence hung heavier until Genji spoke.

“Yes.”

Quiet, but there. With a newfound vigor, the omnic coated his fingers once more, pressing them thrice to Genji’s forehead as he brushed the hair back. A similar design of dots to the grid glowing on Zenyatta’s plating. _Tilaka_ , he called it. _Welcome. Honor_. The ink dried slowly, lightweight, likely to stain for a while. Despite lacking facial features, Zenyatta looked pleased.

“The level of trust you possess is admirable. I look forward to our next meeting, Genji.”

And he was gone as soon as he came, extinguishing the candles and bringing his mixture with him. Genji sat in the dark, eyes burning with wetness until he closed them, face turned up to the sky.

 

 _Warrior_.


End file.
